thambok
Really Really Experienced
- Joined
- Feb 14, 2006
- Posts
- 366
The basic skeleton of the story is below. It still needs to be filled in, but I can't decide if it is worth pursuing further. Any and all comments are welcome.
What can I say? Spending the day here has inspired me.
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I know passion. I know the intrinsic pleasure of sliding across Master's skin as she luxuriates in my soft touch. I know the bittersweet joy of Master's hands caressing me from top to bottom, only to pull away and leave me unsated. I know the ecstasy of having Master open me wide, feeling myself cast to the winds. Yet, of all that I know, the feeling of being cast aside for him is what I remember.
I don't know how it started, because I was asleep. My first recollection was the darkness being pierced by a shaft of light, as the door opened. I struggled to focus, but Master grabbed me by the neck and threw me on the chair. My grogginess gone, I eagerly awaited her next touch. On nights like this, Master was brutal. And I loved it.
Would I permitted to get wet tonight? Would I be rewarded with a deluge, as I spun into oblivion? Would I be permitted to get hot? The eagerness welled up inside, as I recalled those nights past, but I was brought back to reality by the sound of Master's voice.
“Black and white. Always a fun combination.”
With those words, Jean was thrown to the ground beside me. The excitement welling up within quickly subsided, as I realized what the events of the evening would be.
Jean and I would look our best. Master would see to that. We would begin with dinner. As she flirted with him, Master would gently run her fingers along my curves, ensuring his eyes were riveted. As the night wore on, he would became increasingly brave. He would start by tentatively caressing Jean, as if asking permission. If Master gave it, his grasp on Jean wold move from tenuous to rough, feed by his hungry lust. Our activities would begin to attract attention from the other patrons in the restaurant, until our ejection was inevitable. When the manager began to approach, he would ask for the check, and leave before giving them the opportunity.
As the door swung open, the cold blast of air would send frigid chills through Jean and I, but Master would keep walking. We would pack into his 2 seater, and we would be pressed against the seats, until we arrived at the club. As we sauntered into the club, heads would turn, as eyes and thoughts traveled across Jean and I. Master would swell with pride, as she overheard the muffled “Damn, that Cami is hot.”
She would insist that he buy her a drink from the bar, and we would be forced to go along. Standing there at the bar, unknown hands would travel across Jean and I, filling us with revulsion. Without fail, the anonymous hands would be disgusting, as would the person attached to them.
As he paid the tab, Master would walk to the center of the dance floor to show off Jean and I to full effect. As she began to sway to the hypnotic rhythm, Jean and I would began to playfully touch one another. Every so often, Master's undulations wold drive us apart, but we would invariably return to each others touch. As he joined us, he would slide one arm around me, and press his body against Jean's back. As Master grew more excited, the sensual nature of the dance wold come out. I would feel him tug at me, as he pressed his stiffening cock against Jean. They would pay us no mind, as the drinks flowed freely. Jean and I would be covered in spilled drinks, drying into a firm stickiness, that could not help but make Jean and I think of him.
When the party began to wind down, Master would invite him to our place. Driven by the forces of passion, he would race to the house. His control would fail, and he would begin clawing at me walking up the front walk. Paying no attention, Master would open the door, and slowly walk to the living room, showing Jean off, as he pawed at me. He would throw Master, Jean and I to the couch, all coherence lost to his frenzied state. With careless rough hands, he would fumble at me, trying desperately to open me. And he would succeed.
Just as I felt the air rush into me, Master would throw Jean and I off of the couch, and to the floor. And from our vantage point, we would watch in sullen anger as he ravaged Master.
I know passion, but I have never known passion.
Such is the life of the wardrobe.
What can I say? Spending the day here has inspired me.
--------------
I know passion. I know the intrinsic pleasure of sliding across Master's skin as she luxuriates in my soft touch. I know the bittersweet joy of Master's hands caressing me from top to bottom, only to pull away and leave me unsated. I know the ecstasy of having Master open me wide, feeling myself cast to the winds. Yet, of all that I know, the feeling of being cast aside for him is what I remember.
I don't know how it started, because I was asleep. My first recollection was the darkness being pierced by a shaft of light, as the door opened. I struggled to focus, but Master grabbed me by the neck and threw me on the chair. My grogginess gone, I eagerly awaited her next touch. On nights like this, Master was brutal. And I loved it.
Would I permitted to get wet tonight? Would I be rewarded with a deluge, as I spun into oblivion? Would I be permitted to get hot? The eagerness welled up inside, as I recalled those nights past, but I was brought back to reality by the sound of Master's voice.
“Black and white. Always a fun combination.”
With those words, Jean was thrown to the ground beside me. The excitement welling up within quickly subsided, as I realized what the events of the evening would be.
Jean and I would look our best. Master would see to that. We would begin with dinner. As she flirted with him, Master would gently run her fingers along my curves, ensuring his eyes were riveted. As the night wore on, he would became increasingly brave. He would start by tentatively caressing Jean, as if asking permission. If Master gave it, his grasp on Jean wold move from tenuous to rough, feed by his hungry lust. Our activities would begin to attract attention from the other patrons in the restaurant, until our ejection was inevitable. When the manager began to approach, he would ask for the check, and leave before giving them the opportunity.
As the door swung open, the cold blast of air would send frigid chills through Jean and I, but Master would keep walking. We would pack into his 2 seater, and we would be pressed against the seats, until we arrived at the club. As we sauntered into the club, heads would turn, as eyes and thoughts traveled across Jean and I. Master would swell with pride, as she overheard the muffled “Damn, that Cami is hot.”
She would insist that he buy her a drink from the bar, and we would be forced to go along. Standing there at the bar, unknown hands would travel across Jean and I, filling us with revulsion. Without fail, the anonymous hands would be disgusting, as would the person attached to them.
As he paid the tab, Master would walk to the center of the dance floor to show off Jean and I to full effect. As she began to sway to the hypnotic rhythm, Jean and I would began to playfully touch one another. Every so often, Master's undulations wold drive us apart, but we would invariably return to each others touch. As he joined us, he would slide one arm around me, and press his body against Jean's back. As Master grew more excited, the sensual nature of the dance wold come out. I would feel him tug at me, as he pressed his stiffening cock against Jean. They would pay us no mind, as the drinks flowed freely. Jean and I would be covered in spilled drinks, drying into a firm stickiness, that could not help but make Jean and I think of him.
When the party began to wind down, Master would invite him to our place. Driven by the forces of passion, he would race to the house. His control would fail, and he would begin clawing at me walking up the front walk. Paying no attention, Master would open the door, and slowly walk to the living room, showing Jean off, as he pawed at me. He would throw Master, Jean and I to the couch, all coherence lost to his frenzied state. With careless rough hands, he would fumble at me, trying desperately to open me. And he would succeed.
Just as I felt the air rush into me, Master would throw Jean and I off of the couch, and to the floor. And from our vantage point, we would watch in sullen anger as he ravaged Master.
I know passion, but I have never known passion.
Such is the life of the wardrobe.
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